The Poisoned Chalice

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Rodger and Benjamin are sent to Paris on a secret errand of state importance... Violent death, danger and treachery abound in The Poisoned Chalice, the second journal of the incorrigible Roger Shallot from acclaimed historical author, Paul Doherty. Perfect for fans of Ellis Peters and Susannah Gregory. In 1521, England is at peace under the magnificent Cardinal Wolsey, who rules the country while Henry VIII spends his time in masques, banquets and hunting, whether it be the fleet-footed deer or the even more delicious quarry of the silken-garbed ladies of the court. But Richard Falconer, chief secretary of the English embassy in Paris, has been found mysteriously murdered. Wolsey believes that Falconer's death is connected with the disturbing news that there is a spy in the English court, or in its embassy in Paris, passing information to King Francis I of France. He summons his nephew, Benjamin Daunbey, and the wayward Roger Shallot to investigate. The only clue is the spy's code name, 'Raphael'. King Henry has secret instructions of his own before the pair journey to Paris: to retrieve a precious ring, the subject of a wager, and a certain book that the King does not want to fall into enemy hands. They are not to return to England without them. What readers are saying about The Poisoned Chalice : 'Shallot is a superb character, and his voice is once again portrayed convincingly ' 'The story moves along briskly, sprinkled liberally with foul murder, to an unexpectedly sensitive and touching ending ' 'Paul Doherty seems to be able to turn his hand to virtually any century in history'

Release date: November 27, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 288

Sample

Richard III – The last Yorkist king, called the Usurper or Pretender. He was defeated by Henry Tudor at Market Bosworth in August 1485.
He was the wearer of the White Rose, his personal emblem being Le Blanc Sanglier – the White Boar.


Henry Tudor – The Welshman. The Great Miser, the victor of Bosworth, founder of the Tudor dynasty and father of Henry VIII and Margaret
of Scotland. He died in 1509.


Arthur – Henry Tudor’s first born. He died young and the crown went to his brother Henry.


Henry VIII – Bluff King Hal, the Great Killer, the Great Beast, Fat Harry. A king who had six wives and a string of mistresses. He is
the Mouldwarp or the Dark One, as prophesied by Merlin.


Catherine of Aragon – A Spanish princess, Henry VIII’s first wife and mother of Mary Tudor.


Anne Boleyn – Daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn. Second wife of Henry VIII and mother of Elizabeth Tudor.


Bessie Blount – One of the more dazzling of Henry VIII’s mistresses.


Mary Tudor – Daughter of Catherine of Aragon and Henry VIII, nicknamed Bloody Mary because of her persecution of Protestants.


Elizabeth I – Queen of England, daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, nicknamed the Virgin Queen though Shallot claims to have had a son by her.


Catherine Howard – Henry VIII’s fifth wife. Executed for her extra-marital affairs.


Francis I – King of France, brilliant, dazzling and sex mad.


Will Shakespeare – English playwright.


Chris Marlowe – English playwright and spy, killed in a tavern brawl.


Thomas Wolsey – Son of an Ipswich butcher, he went to Oxford and embarked upon a brilliant career. He became Cardinal, Archbishop and First
Minister of Henry VIII.


Suleiman the Magnificent – Turkish Emperor.


Mary, Queen of Scots – Granddaughter of Margaret Tudor and mother of James I of England and Scotland.


Thomas More – Humanist, scholar. Minister of Henry VIII, later executed for opposing Henry’s divorce from Catherine of Aragon.


Edward VI – Son of Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, a sickly boy who died young.


Catherine de Medici – Italian Princess. Married Henry II, King Francis I’s son. She dominated France after her husband’s death: a subtle intriguer,
nicknamed Madame Serpent.


Claude – The ugly, dumpy, pleasant wife of Francis I.


Charles VIII – Ruler of France in the 1490s. Husband of Anne of Brittany whose province he annexed. An ugly little man, he is supposed to
have died accidentally after hitting his head on a cupboard.


Louis XII – Charles VIII’s successor, thought to have died from exhaustion after marrying Henry VIII’s sister, the Princess Mary.


Michael Nostradamus – Seer and necromancer, often used by Catherine de Medici.


If Murder is Satan’s eldest son then Poison, Queen of the Night, is his favourite daughter. Why do I say this? Because I dreamt
about her last night when my manor house had fallen silent and its mullioned windows gazed like sightless eyes over the dark,
lush fields of my estate. I’d slipped out of bed, leaving Margot the launderess and her sister Phoebe gently snoring (they
sleep on either side to keep me warm), and crept downstairs to my secret chamber, behind the high table in the Great Hall.
Only I know which carved wooden panel to press to release the catch and allow me into the sanctuary of my past. Everything
is there. Sometimes I just light the candles and squat, going through this coffer or that. Well, last night, I chose one ’specially.
I unlocked the three clasps, took out the faded petals of a flower wrapped in oiled leather, as well as all the letters and
documents from that fateful summer of 1520. I read them and cried as they took me back through time, down the long bloody
passageways of the last seventy-five years.


I became maudlin, drinking more rich claret than my chaplain would like to imagine. I hummed a little tune, even as the ghosts
gathered round me, silent and threatening. I didn’t care. Old Shallot never gives a rat’s arse. I leaned against the cold brick wall, cradling the faded flower petals in my hands, and drifted into a demon-haunted nightmare.


I was in Paris again, standing in the dark fields around the Château de Maubisson. Above me, a strange moon, white as snow,
waned behind purple clouds. Strangely, the sun also shone, though it turned a dusty red, blotted out by the dark wings of
vultures. A terrible rushing wind tore at my hair and clothes as merciless demons appeared from all directions, faces twisted
with rage, teeth bared between snarling lips, eyes shining like stars whilst flames burst out of their mouths. Behind them,
in the blackest darkness, rode the Lord Satan (oh, yes, I’ve met the evil bugger a number of times) on his dark-winged steed.
He swept towards me, like the wind raising a storm as soaring eagles raise dust. When he stopped before me, the steel-shod
hooves of his war horse drew sparks from the ground. I looked up but his terrible face was hidden in the shadow of a helmet.


Suddenly a devil appeared beside me, with red hands and feet and a head as bald as a pig. This tormentor lifted a gold-ringed
trumpet and brayed a terrible blast. I just stood wondering what would happen. (Even in my dreams, I follow one of the basic
tenets of old Shallot’s philosophy: In danger always run and, if you can’t run, do nothing!) I looked towards the château
entrance and saw Queen Poison, dreadful as an army in battle array, sweep towards me across the lowered drawbridge, arms extended
as if she wished to clasp me to her deceitful bosom. I stared into her white beautiful face, the carmined lips pursed into
a kiss, and crumpled to my knees before this most dread Queen of the Abyss.


I woke stiff as a poker. My back ached, my bum was sore and my mouth caked with the rich tang of the wine. I staggered back
to a cold bed but Margot and Phoebe had fled. They always do that, the saucy wenches, they like to tease and make me beg for
them to come back. I was too exhausted. I slept the sleep of the just till the chapel bells roused me late this afternoon.
Now I feel refreshed, I’ve downed a venison pie, a tankard of ale and two cups of claret, and have returned to the centre
of my maze to dictate my memoirs. I will tell you what happened in that dreadful summer of 1520, for that’s what the dream
was about.


I am comfortable in my maze which is laid out like the one at Hampton Court was by the Great Killer’s chief minister, Cardinal
Thomas Wolsey. My chair with its high back and strong iron wheels is positioned correctly to catch the sun. I have a jug of
wine, two silver goblets and a jewel-encrusted plate of doucettes. My clerk is also ready. My little Mephistopheles, my darling
chaplain. The little turd!


He always takes his time: he must get his ink horn out, his parchment smooth, his quill sharpened, and make sure his little
arse is comfortable on the softest cushions my manor can provide. He says he is ready to take down my memoirs. The little
hypocrite! I can see the smirk on his fat, greasy face. He thinks I am a liar. A liar! I, Sir Roger Shallot, Lord of Burpham
Manor in Guildford, Surrey, Commissioner of Array, Justice of the Peace, the holder of many awards and decorations, Member
of the Privy Council (believe me, that’s well named), Member of Parliament (I’ll tell you a funny story about that soon).
Oh, yes, Sir Roger Shallot, now well past his ninetieth year, the darling and most loyal subject of the great Elizabeth, daughter
of Anne Boleyn (she had the most beautiful tits) and, allegedly, the Great Killer himself, Henry VIII – the fat syphilitic
bastard! I say ‘allegedly’ because I know different. Oh, I’ll tell you the truth some day but that’s another story.


Anyway, back to my chaplain. I grip my cane tightly and watch his smile disappear. Old Shallot is not a liar! True, sometimes
my memory fails me, I get things slightly mixed up, but I am not a liar. Well, even if I am, at least I am not a hypocrite
like him. Yes, he’s a hypocrite and I can prove it. Two weeks ago in church the snivelling little bastard got up in the pulpit
and told us not to be frightened of death. I sat in my pew and heard him prate on for at least an hour and a half. Now, usually
I don’t mind. I always take a bottle of claret and a meat pie to help me through the service and, when it’s finished, I gaze
around to catch the eye of some pretty maid. When I do, I wink and smile at her. She, of course, becomes agitated and it’s
so lovely to watch full ripe bosoms rise and fall!


On that particular Sunday my chaplain wouldn’t shut up and I was getting hungry. On and on he droned about how we shouldn’t
fear death but welcome the joys of heaven, so I picked up my two horse pistols and gave the sod both barrels. You can still
see the holes on either side of the pulpit. Well, I laughed myself silly. The chaplain went white as snow and fainted straight
out of the pulpit. I didn’t intend to kill him. I just wanted to see if he practised what he preached. Instead I concluded
he was about as frightened of death as I am so why, in the good Lord’s name, did he get up and bore us stiff telling us different?


He didn’t know I always carry pistols under my cloak, and he may well ask why. For the same reason I dictate my memoirs in
the centre of a maze. You see, old Shallot has many enemies and memories die hard. The secret order of the Templars still
has a price on my life. The Luciferi of France (I’ll come to those bastards later) would like to see my head on a pole. The
Council of Ten in Venice have sent three assassins against me just because I borrowed some of their gold and forgot to repay
it. The silly idiots came nowhere near me. The great Irish wolf hounds who roam my estate tore them to pieces. Marvellous
animals! They lounge round my chair now, staring at the chaplain and licking their lips.


Of course, other assassins might come. Do you know, I once played a game of human chess against the Ottoman Emperor, Suleiman
the Magnificent? Instead of pieces we played with human beings on a great white and black piazza. When we lost a ‘piece’,
the ‘gardeners’, the Ottoman’s mute executioners, immediately strangled the poor victim. Now I won that game, losing just
two ‘pieces’, but only after I left with the comeliest ‘piece’ of all, a wench from the imperial harem, did Suleiman discover
that I had cheated and publicly marked me down for death. Perhaps his ‘gardeners’ will come but I am not frightened. I have
my maze, I have my secret chamber, my own silent guards, my wolf hounds and my beloved pistols. Moreover, I have seen it all.
The knife, the sword, the rope, the garrotte – they don’t chill my heart.


Poison, however, is a different matter. That’s why I make my chaplain taste what I eat and drink. Everything, that is, except my best claret. I mean, the Bible does say we shouldn’t throw our pearls before swine! Poison . . . That takes
me back to my nightmare. Now I have met poisoners, dark, subtle souls who can strike at any time and in a million ways. You
name a poisoner and I’ll tell you all about him or her. By the way, have you noticed that? How the best poisoners are women?
I mean, look at Agrippina, wife to the Emperor Claudius. If you have read your books you will discover that the Romans used
to have tasters too and loved food so much they’d make themselves sick after each course by sticking a feather down their
throats. Do you know what Agrippina did? She didn’t poison the food. No, cunning bitch, she poisoned the feather and got rid
of her husband.


She reminds me of Catherine de Medici, Queen of France, ‘Madame Serpent’ as I used to call her. I never accepted anything
from Catherine, for what she didn’t know about poisons wasn’t worth knowing. I was talking about her last week when our Queen
came to visit me – Elizabeth, with her white painted face, black teeth and red wig. The great Virgin Queen – don’t you believe
it! Well, she brought me sad news. How our love-child, Robin, had been captured at sea by the Spanish and taken to Madrid.
I told her not to worry. If Robin was truly our child, the bloody Spanish wouldn’t hold him long and, if they do, then he
is not worthy of our blood. I made her laugh and she reminded me of how Robin had been conceived. You want to know? Fine,
I’ll tell you. I was once a Member of Parliament and one day in the chamber at Westminster, a Puritan, a lozenge of sanctified
humility, got up from his arse and roared at me because I called him a blackened turd.


‘Shallot,’ he bellowed, ‘you’ll either die by hanging or die of the pox!’

‘That, sir,’ I coldly replied, ‘depends on whether I embrace your principles or your wife.’

Well, the chamber was in an uproar. I refused to apologise to the Speaker so the Serjeant-at-arms hustled me to the Tower.
Elizabeth (because I had been defending her) came to visit me. She insisted on seeing me alone, and you know Shallot! A cup
of wine and a pretty girl in an empty room and anything could happen. On that occasion it certainly did! In her younger days
Elizabeth was a passionate girl. She had a cloying sensuousness and, like her mother, Anne Boleyn, she could ride anything.
(I see my chaplain snigger so a quick rap across the knuckles reminds him to keep his mouth shut and his thoughts clean about
his betters.)


Ah, poison, the subtle murderer of my dreams. Well, I have now marshalled my thoughts, summoning memories from that summer
over seventy years ago. Oh, Lord, it seems only yesterday when I and my master, Benjamin Daunbey, nephew to the great Cardinal
Wolsey, were sent to the Château de Maubisson outside Paris to resolve certain mysteries. Ah, I have mentioned his name! Benjamin,
with his long, dark face, kindly eyes and lawyer’s stoop. When I think of him I always smile. He was one of the few really
good men I have ever met. If you have read my earlier memoirs you will know how this occurred. We went to school together,
I saved him from a beating and he rescued me from a hanging, twice; once in Ipswich and then again at Montfaucon, that great
forest of gibbets which stands near the Porte St Denis in Paris.


Now, Benjamin’s uncle, the great Wolsey, and his black familiar, the enigmatic Doctor Agrippa, used us both on countless errands in the sinister twilight world of treason, murder
and lechery of the courts of Europe. Lackaday, they have all gone now! They’re just shadows, ghosts who dance under the shade
of the spreading yew trees which border the far end of the lawn in front of my manor house.


Ghosts they may be but they bring back memories of broken hearts, foul deeds, sinister minds, and souls stained with the blackness
of hell. I’ll tell you this as I sit in the centre of my maze and listen to the clear song of the thrush: the murderous soul
I met at Maubisson was one of the most chilling I have ever encountered.


In the spring of 1520 Benjamin Daunbey and I were the proud occupants of a large manor house on the outskirts of Ipswich.
Really, it was more of a pleasaunce than a manor with its white lathed plaster, ornamental chimney pots, squat black beams,
with panelled rooms with carved furniture, and a cellar well stocked with a variety of wines. On our estate were granges,
barns, a mill, carp ponds, lush fields and fertile meadows. We were the grateful beneficiaries of the largesse of Benjamin’s
uncle, the great Wolsey, who lavished rewards on us for resolving, only a few months earlier, the sinister White Rose murders.


Now success had not changed Benjamin. He still dressed drably. Indeed, I well remember him as he was then, long and lanky,
his sombre, solemn face framed by jet black hair. At the time I was of the same colouring (there’s a portrait of me hanging
at Burpham). I was dark, my black hair cropped close, a slight cast in one eye, and a cheeky expression which many said would
send me to the gallows. In a way they were right but, thankfully, I was never hanged though I was close to it on many occasions.
What amuses me is that many of those who claimed I would hang, died violent deaths themselves in some pot-holed alleyway,
bleak battlefield or gory execution yard. I was a bigger rogue then than I am now but Benjamin was as different as chalk from cheese. He had that irritating manner of believing
all was well and trusting everyone completely.


In theory Benjamin was Lord of the Manor and I, a true man of the world, his steward, his trusted servant and bosom friend.
I was wise beyond my nineteen years and kept a sharp weather eye on all the human kites and ravens attracted by Benjamin’s
generosity. You know the sort: wandering musicians, ballad mongers, sharp-eyed priests. (I see my chaplain’s shoulders twitch
with annoyance.)


This unsavoury pack of rogues streamed across the meadows to our Manor House like rats towards an unguarded hen coop. Old
Shallot did what he could. I bought the biggest mastiffs I could find and sent the beggars screaming for the trees, at least
for a while. At the time I had little knowledge of dogs. One day I took the beasts hunting and they raised a big fat buck.
I never saw the buck again, nor the mastiffs. God knows what happened to them. They scampered off, barking like the devil.
Those four-footed mercenaries must have met someone else who took better care of them because they never returned.


Nevertheless my problems with my master’s open-handed generosity persisted. At last I had a serious discussion with Benjamin
in our great oak-panelled hall, the walls above the panelling painted a light green and decorated with cunningly devised shields
bearing the arms of Wolsey, Daunbey and, finally, Shallot. Of course, I made the latter up though I am still very proud of
them; a mailed fist, middle finger extended, and underneath the Latin motto ‘In dubito curre’ which, roughly translated, means ‘In doubt, run’. I bear the same arms now but the middle finger of the mailed fist is no longer extended since the Queen’s herald, Rouge-Croix, discovered that in certain parts of
France such a gesture could be taken as offensive or obscene. Nevertheless, at the time I was proud of my skill. I had developed
a deft hand at writing bills and counterfeiting other people’s signatures, my master’s included. No, I wasn’t a thief! I just
had to look after our property. And that provoked the confrontation with Benjamin.


‘Master,’ I wailed, ‘we cannot keep feeding every rogue in the neighbourhood. I am tired of naughty nuns, fornicating friars,
mouldy monks, ruthless rogues and virile villains!’


He leaned back in his chair in front of the hearth and laughed till the tears ran down his face.

‘You have a way with words, Roger.’ He straightened his face and sat up. ‘But I still insist that we help those less fortunate.
So, what do you propose?’


‘Children,’ I answered without thinking. (That’s another of my faults, I am too kind-hearted and often speak without thinking.)
‘Start a school,’ I stammered. ‘For the children of the village. Help those who need such learning.’


‘Marvellous!’ Benjamin replied. ‘But how can I assist you, Roger?’

I looked away, embarrassed. ‘You have helped me enough, master.’

‘You’re bored aren’t you, Roger? You miss London?’

Good Lord, it was wonderful how my master could read my mind! Now, we very rarely went up to the great city and, when we did,
Benjamin kept a close eye and a tight rein on me. You see, he knew me to be like a dog on a leash, straining to break free
and head hell for leather into the nearest mischief. Of course, we had been to London to visit Benjamin’s former betrothed, Johanna, a sweet girl whom he
adored. Johanna had fallen for Cavendish, one of the great lords of the land, who’d broken her heart and destroyed her wits.
Now the girl lived in the care of the nuns at Syon on the Thames, a mere shadow of her former self. (Oh, by the way, Benjamin
killed the nobleman concerned in a duel with swords in Leicester Fields. Mind you, it wasn’t the last time he fell in love.
Oh, no! But that’s another story.)


‘You should go, Roger,’ Benjamin continued. ‘But stay here at least until Easter. I’ll need your help to clear one of the
chambers and set up a school room. You will help?’


I needed no second bidding and, in the last two weeks of Lent, when Benjamin fasted on water and salted fish and abstained
from wine (I did the same during the day but, at night, I always crept out to one of the nearby taverns; I have great difficulty
fasting for I get this terrible thirst!), I worked like a Trojan, clearing, cleaning, painting and refurbishing, until the
old solar on the ground floor of our manor house gleamed as fresh and as opulent as one of the great Halls of Cambridge. (Oh,
yes, Benjamin and I had also been to university but, due to minor misunderstandings, had both been asked to leave before we
received our degrees. Well, who cares?)


On Easter Sunday, just after morning Mass, Benjamin, as Lord of the Manor, announced the opening of his school to his incredulous
parishioners. My master expected little response. Sometimes he could be the most idealistic of fools! The villagers, however,
took him at his word, only too willing to dump their scruffy-arsed offspring on him between the hours of ten and five. Benjamin
didn’t mind. He took to schoolmastering like a duck to water. Horn books, quills, pens, ink horns, an abacus and rolls of parchment were
bought. The hall was invaded by legions of snotty-nosed, tousle-haired, black-faced imps. I feared the little bastards would
destroy the place but Benjamin was always good with children. He had a way of listening to them as if their every word was
a pearl of wisdom. Sometimes I joined him in the school room.


You see, usually I worked on the ac. . .